Walking in the cold, dark, moonless night
The truth is out there
But it might bring fright to those with true insight.
These things that are mysteries flow through stormy seas
And settle upon the shore
For us to hold within ourselves forevermore.
We cannot get rid of it;
They come from the past that haunts before
We know not the meaning of their nature
But practice as our own
Only recently we desire their meaning known.
Are they truth, or are they lies?
Into and from our lives they flow
These things are simply things we do not know.
These things are pseudo
